


Apple Juice

by astrotato



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (TV 2003), Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (TV 2012), Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: Bad Eating Habits, Fainting, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Hypoglycemia, No Actual Eating Disorders Occur, discussion of eating disorders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 19:01:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20262970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrotato/pseuds/astrotato
Summary: Rather than boosting Michelangelo’s energy levels, the recent and very drastic removal of unhealthy foods seemed to be having the opposite effect. Clearly, his body had become too used to the abnormal amounts of sugar he had been ingesting over the course of his life. His brothers had been right; eating so much junk was going to be the death of him at some point. Be it through clogged arteries or whatever else too much pizza could do to a vaguely humanoid body.





	Apple Juice

**Author's Note:**

> This fic contains: Bad Eating Habits, aka, a misguided attempt at eating healthier. Tread carefully, even if it is not very graphic.

Like a wet curtain, the rain had shrouded the streets of New York City in its cacophonous pitter-patter mere seconds after its arrival. The downpour lasted no more than thirty minutes. Now, the rain was gone, but the air remained heavy with the scent of drenched asphalt and the ever-present stink of exhaust fumes, too ingrained within the very fabric of the city to be washed away.

Hands wringing at the dripping ends of his mask, Michelangelo allowed himself to slump a little more into the unforgiving concrete of the parapet fencing the flat roof. The bone-deep weariness settled over him, weighing heavy on his aching limbs. Over the past months, the sensation had become quite familiar to Michelangelo, an unwanted symptom rearing its ugly head whenever the adrenaline of their nightly patrols faded. Despite Michelangelo’s propensity to oversleep, the exhaustion seemed to only grow more ravenous with each onset, hindering even the simplest of movements.

Rather than boosting Michelangelo’s energy levels, the recent and very drastic removal of unhealthy foods seemed to be having the opposite effect. Clearly, his body had become too used to the abnormal amounts of sugar he had been ingesting over the course of his life. His brothers had been right; eating so much junk was going to be the death of him at some point. Be it through clogged arteries or whatever else too much pizza could do to a vaguely humanoid body. Having a fast metabolism was not going to keep his heart from giving out, after all. Michelangelo wrinkled his nose as his stomach gave a pained twinge.

And yet, not eating before going on patrol had not been one of Michelangelo’s smarter ideas.

“Master Splinter’s not going to be happy,” Leonardo sighed. “Sun’s coming up.”

Head tilting, Michelangelo peered over the parapet. A thin line of silver along the horizon heralded the approaching dawn. “Oh, he’s _definitely_ going to give us a lecture this time. What’s this, the sixth day in a row we’ve been out ‘till sunrise?”

“The fifth,” Donatello quipped from where he was attempting to salvage the broken strap of his left knee pad. “Not that it makes a difference. Let’s get going, we’re almost home.”

Never in his life had Michelangelo ever struggled quite so hard to heave himself off a flat surface. Now, clambering to his feet in slow increments, even the smallest movement sent a jitter of searing dizziness up the curvature of his spine. The sensation accumulated at the base of Michelangelo’s skull like a large rock, dense and heavy.

Somehow, Michelangelo managed to stand upright, taking in the ever-brightening skyline of the city. The first tendrils of lavender crept their way across the firmament. For a moment, Michelangelo felt afloat, balancing the overbearing weight of his head atop the perceived needlepoint of his neck. Then, the world began to tilt, a languid twist to the left.

“Fuck!” A sturdy arm around his midsection halted Michelangelo’s uncontrolled descent. “What’s wrong now?”

Raphael’s voice was muffled, as if he was speaking through cotton, the words barely discernable above the quick, irregular throb of blood pulsing behind Michelangelo’s watering eyes. Saliva gathered at the back of Michelangelo’s throat, thick and hard to swallow. “Dizzy, m’fine.”

“Sure,” Raphael scoffed, grip shifting and tightening as he forced Michelangelo to face him. “Pull the other one, Mike. You look like shit.”

“Thanks.” Michelangelo’s eyes fluttered shut, head lolling against the hard plating of Raphael’s plastron. “You’re pretty, too.”

“What happened?” Donatello, frantic yet controlled, his fingers cold against the too-warm flesh of Michelangelo’s cheeks. “Mikey?”

Raphael’s voice rumbled against Michelangelo’s cheek as he replied, “He just toppled over. Thought he was messin’ around for a moment, to be honest. Caught him just in time. Hey, Mike, you wanna tell Don what’s wrong?”

“What are you guys doing?” Leonardo, tired but alert, his hands two warm pressure points against Michelangelo’s shell. “Is Mikey hurt?”

“No,” Michelangelo huffed, prying the aching lids of his eyes apart. “Just dizzy. It’ll be fine, seriously, guys.”

“You almost ate concrete a minute ago, Mike, this isn’t fine,” Raphael snarked.

“Well, maybe I like the taste. Have you thought of that?”

“Oh, well, then you won’t mind if I let you go then-”

“_Don’t_-!”

Another pair of arms looped around Michelangelo’s middle and plucked him from Raphael’s slackened grip with ease. Barely a second of being airborne later, Michelangelo was deposited on his own two feet once more, tucked against Donatello’s side. “Stop messing around, you two. We need to get home. Are you good to go, Mikey?”

With a vague shrug and a non-committal nod, Michelangelo allowed himself to be led towards the edge of the roof. The fire-escaped lurked below, a winding construct of dark steel. On any other day, Michelangelo would not have questioned its safety. Now, he wondered whether another dizzy spell would cause him to end today’s patrol splattered across the pavement below.

Forcing aside his trepidation, Michelangelo followed Donatello’s lead, down the creaking stairs.

Be it due to luck or the Great Turtle Above smiling down at them, the pavement remained splatter-free. The rest of their journey home was equally uneventful, the early morning chatter of the city soon replaced by the damp silence of the New York City’s sewer system, broken only by the quiet rush of draining water. Upon entering their home, they were greeted by the sight of their father sitting in front of the TV, fast asleep. Michelangelo watched as Leonardo and Donatello exchanged a quick grin, the former moving to tuck a blanket around their snoring father, the latter deftly plucking the remote from Splinter’s slack fingers in order to turn off the TV.

A breathless few heartbeats passed. Splinter did not wake.

Shoulders slacking with relief, they shuffled their way out of the living room area towards the bathroom, eager to rinse the grime they had accumulated over the night from their shells and skin. Immediately, Raphael insisted on going first, causing a quiet squabble to break out between Leonardo and him, dominated by hushed insults in Japanese and arcing gestures. Unwilling to enter the quiet argument, Michelangelo nudged for Donatello to go first and settled against the wall to wait.

By the time Michelangelo’s turn to use the shower came around, Raphael and Leonardo were still bickering, albeit clean and smelling faintly of soap. It seemed the beneficial effects of a hot shower were not universally applicable. Shaking his head, Michelangelo shut the bathroom door behind himself and stepped into the already steaming shower. The hot water soothed his tired muscles, the steady noise almost enough to cover the dull, disorienting roar growling louder in his ears.

Lethargic and ready to fall into bed, Michelangelo scrubbed the dirt from his body, the bottle of shower gel slippery between his clumsy fingers. It fell, clunking onto the shower tray. A mere second after he had bent down to retrieve it, Michelangelo knew he had made a mistake.

Dizziness overwhelmed him. Michelangelo gave a weak cry of shock as the world around him began to spin, disintegrating into a kaleidoscopic swirl of white tiles and colorful shower gel bottles. It was frightening, the sudden loss of control, the inability to force his own body into motion, the lack of resistance as his feet skidded over the wet porcelain-

Michelangelo came to, resting against the warm firmness of Leonardo’s plastron, his blurry vision just enough to make out the jagged edge of his brother’s scarred carapace. Weak and unable to move a muscle, Michelangelo noted the shower was still running, spraying warm water across the back of his neck. Not much time could have passed, then.

“-looks horrible! What happened? Donnie?”

A hand wrapped itself around Michelangelo’s wrist, rough and covered in small burn scars along the knuckles; Donatello’s. “Pulse is irregular. Not sure if he’s sweating or if it’s just water… his skin is extremely pale. We need to get him to the infirmary so I can run some tests, see what’s going on. I can’t… can’t make an accurate assessment- oh! Hey, Mikey, you’re awake, that’s good!”

Mouth quirking into a small smile, Michelangelo met Donatello’s relieved smile. “Hey, Donnie, sorry ‘bout this.”

Donatello shook his head, brushing a hand over the curve of Michelangelo’s skull. “Don’t apologize, we’ll figure it out. Leo, are you good to carry him, or do you want Raph-?”

“I got this, Donnie.” Leonardo’s voice was kind, but firm. “You two go ahead, prepare the infirmary. I’ll get Mikey there.”

Donatello hesitated for a moment longer, then nodded and stood, exiting the bathroom with a too-quiet Raphael in tow. Michelangelo sighed, eyes fluttering shut as the shower was finally turned off. The sudden quiet was almost too much to bear. A deep sigh vibrated through Leonardo’s chest, tickling at Michelangelo’s brow.

“I think you have a bit of explaining to do,” Leonardo said, voice soft and strained.

“Hm?” Michelangelo hummed, curling up against his older brother’s warmth. “Why?”

Leonardo shifted and a towel was draped over Michelangelo, warding off the worst of the chill. “You fainted in the shower, Mikey.”

“Hm… weird.” The towel was the light pink one Michelangelo liked. It was old and had been beaten into softness by the thousands of wash-cycles it had undergone over the years. “Feel weird.”

“Yeah, I bet you do.” Leonardo scooped him off the shower tray, tucking him close to his chest as he carefully stepped out of the shower stall. “Let’s go and fix that, then.”

Michelangelo made to reply, but instead let exhaustion overwhelm him, his body growing limp within Leonardo’s arms.

“- always been the smallest but since when is he so _light_? He’s lost so much muscle mass, have you seen his _arms_?” Michelangelo barely recognized the voice he woke to, the frenzied note turning Leonardo’s controlled tenor into a raspy croak. “Even his legs are… how did we miss this?”

“I don’t know, we’ve… we’ve all been busy. Everything’s been hectic recently, there wasn’t… I knew something was off, but I just assumed he was stressed, too. And, maybe he was, _is_, maybe this is stress-related-”

“Mike’s always been a stress-_eater_, Don.”

“I know, _I know_, Raph, it doesn’t add up, but patterns can change, and Mikey’s always been so volatile in all situations of life, it’d only make sense if that includes his eating habits. I couldn’t find any indication of an illness or anything else which may be causing this… this… sort of deterioration. Other than… than a change in how much food he is consuming.”

Having heard enough, Michelangelo cleared his throat and spoke, “You know it’s not polite to talk about people like they’re not there, you guys.”

Raphael snorted, his large hand landing atop the blanket covering Michelangelo’s knees with a dull thud. “Wouldn’t have had to if you didn’t doze off. What the fuck is going on, Mike? You’re thin as a rail and Don says it’s ‘cause you’re not eating.”

“Not eating _enough_,” Donatello cut in. “You’re malnourished, Mikey, you fainted twice because your blood sugar is low- speaking of, I want you to drink this. Don’t even try and argue with me.”

A small cup of apple juice was handed to Michelangelo. Eager to destress the situation, Michelangelo did not hesitate to take a sip. The beverage was chilled and gloriously sweet, settling in the pit of Michelangelo’s empty stomach. “’m sorry for worrying you guys.”

Leonardo shook his head. “I don’t care for apologies, Michelangelo, I want answers.”

Michelangelo cringed, grimacing against the rim of the glass. Yikes. “It’s not like I meant to faint, dude. I was just trying to be healthier!”

“Healthier?” Donatello squawked. “Michael! I realize your strengths do _not_ lie within the intricacies of nutrition, but even you must’ve known eating so little you can barely function wasn’t _healthy_! We all have a faster than average metabolism and yours is by far the quickest comparably. You _need_ food to function!”

Swallowing the last of the juice, Michelangelo lowered the glass and focused on the way his knuckles paled while his grip tightened around it. “I didn’t mean to! I just cut out all those snacks you guys always railed on me for and the junk food and, and the midnight cereal binges. It’s hard to keep track of everything all the time and we’ve all been busy and-… and the last thing I wanted was to whine about needing a stupid meal plan because I can’t figure out how to eat normally!”

“Woah, okay,” Raphael cut in, palm planting itself over Michelangelo’s quivering mouth, the other snatching the glass away from him. “Slow down. Are you saying this is our fault?”

Shaking off Raphael’s hand, Michelangelo cried out, “No! I didn’t say that!”

“Then what are you _trying_ to say?” Leonardo looked so very tired, it made something inside Michelangelo’s stomach clench with nausea.

“I told you! I was just trying to be healthier because you guys were right. I was eating too much junk food. No one else runs to the fridge every three hours to snack other than me, I was trying to change my bad habits.” Burying his face in his hands, Michelangelo groaned. “Should’ve known it’d backfire. I’m so _stupid_.”

Two hands wrapped around Michelangelo’s wrists, tugging gently. Raphael’s voice was low, softer than he was used to. “Mikey. Look at me.”

Peering through the gap between his fingers, Michelangelo was met with strangely sad eyes of shadowed amber. “You’re not stupid. What you did? Not very smart. But you’re not stupid.”

“Mikey, you have to understand we just worry about you. We don’t think you’re stupid,” Donatello muttered, clambering to sit atop the bed, cross-legged by Michelangelo’s feet. “If you wanted to eat healthier you could’ve said something. You could’ve talked to any of us. To Father. April, even.”

“I didn’t want to bother anyone. No one else has trouble eating right. And no one else gets dizzy just because they didn’t eat for half a day!”

“You’re dizzy because your body is malnourished, Mikey-”

Michelangelo shook his head, dropping his hands to grasp at the blanket. “No! Before that, I always got dizzy after we came home from patrol. And after training.”

“Didn’t I _just_ tell you that your metabolism is _very_ fast? You burn energy extremely quickly, Mikey, it’s why you get hungry more often than we do and why you are so prone to hypoglycaemia induced dizziness… that’s dizziness caused by low blood sugar.”

Michelangelo frowned, sinking against the pillows stacked behind his shell. “Then why did you guys… why did you keep saying I should stop eating so much?”

“Well,” Donatello cleared his throat, awkwardly glancing over his shoulder at Leonardo. “Pleading my own case here, I said to stop eating too much junk food, because, fast metabolism or not, too much sugar, salt and unhealthy fats are not good for you-”

“I tried to do that, though! And I did it wrong, somehow!”

“Yes, and I still don’t understand _how_-”

“We’ve established that,” Leonardo snapped, stepping forward from where he had been lingering by the door. “How do we fix it?”

Floundering for a moment, Donatello’s left hand flapped through the air, then settled atop Michelangelo’s right shin. “We, uh… make a proper meal plan. Maybe April can get us some healthier snack options for Mikey to eat whenever he feels hungry or dizzy. We may have to reduce his training time for a bit, but we’ll see how he does after two weeks of rest first.”

“Two weeks!” Michelangelo squeaked. “Come on, Donnie, that’s not necessary, I’ll be fine! I just need to eat a little more. Right?”

“Mikey,” Donatello sighed, a pained grimace twisting the corners of his mouth and the ridge of his brow. “This isn’t… we can’t just let this go, do you understand? What you’ve been doing… I’m not a psychologist but it’s… Mikey, did you do this because you thought you were… were too… heavy? Or that you’d be… be _better_ if you weighed less? Or because you think that you don’t… don’t deserve food?”

“… What?” Michelangelo blinked. “No! What does any of that have to do with eating less junk food, anyway?”

Raphael groaned, dragging his mask down to rest around his neck in order to rub at the bridge of his snout. “Right, I see where you’re going, Don, but I think it’s safe to conclude Mike’s not suffering from an eating disorder, just from a very severe case of not-thinking-ahead.”

“Eating disorder!” Michelangelo cried, “Eating disorder, Donnie? Are you- come on, as if I’d ever-!”

“Ever voluntarily not eat enough to the point of fainting?” Donatello barked, voice cold and sharp. “Don’t downplay my concerns, Mikey, Raph. This isn’t something to joke about. Mikey, if there’s anything you want, _need_ to speak about, please, do so. You didn’t see yourself lying at the bottom of the shower. I’ve never been so terrified in my life.”

As quickly as the ice in Donatello’s gaze had appeared, it thawed, leaving a wet sheen to blur the dark orbs. Stricken, Michelangelo reached out, bending forward to grab onto Donatello’s shaking hands. They were warm against Michelangelo’s own, sturdy, scarred and covered in discoloured blotches from whatever chemicals Donatello had been working with recently. Like this, Michelangelo could see just how thin his arms had become; mere twigs compared to his older brother’s.

The sight alone sent a shiver of fear skittering up shell.

“I won’t do it again,” Michelangelo muttered into the small space between them. “I promise. I just didn’t think it through, and you know I’m not very good at paying attention to stuff, Donnie. There’s… I like the way I look. Even if I’m the shortest and you all make fun of me for it. This had nothing to do with how I look. I just wanted to prove that I can live without eating junk food.”

“Are you sure?” Donatello whispered.

“Very sure.”

Silence reigned for a few, long heartbeats. Then, the bed gave a horrendous groan as both Raphael and Leonardo clambered onto the mattress. Before Michelangelo could so much as protest, he found himself lumped into a veritable cuddle pile of which he had last seen hide of when they had still been small enough to sleep comfortably on a single mattress. Tired and quite comfortable in the epicentre of the turtle pretzel, Michelangelo allowed his eyes to fall shut. There was no doubt going to be a longer talk tomorrow, likely involving their father, and April, and meal plans and more lectures. Not a pleasant thought, but one best left for until the time came. For now, Michelangelo decided, he would sleep. 

And so, lulled by the odd symphony of his older brothers’ breathing, Michelangelo, finally, fell asleep.


End file.
